


Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

by phdJohnlock



Series: The Good Tevinter [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Dorian Pavus character study, Getting Together, M/M, Redcliffe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 13:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12818289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phdJohnlock/pseuds/phdJohnlock
Summary: How one Dorian Pavus, far from his home and its associated comforts, on his own in a savage land, and severely overdressed for the occasion, proved his worth, foiled a plot, and earned the trust of a holy man.





	Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly a self-indulgent character study of Dorian. It'll mostly take place prior to In Your Heart Shall Burn. Thanks Jordyn for reading this; I assume you'd have pointed out any egregious errors you saw.

Most of the villagers of Redcliffe, should they have chosen that moment to peer out their windows, would not have seen the man striding through the center of town. The darkness and rain provided superb cover, much as he loathed it. Still, it would not do to be spotted. He pulled his cloak more securely around himself, black gloves obscuring the gaudy jewelry he couldn’t bring himself to sell. His boots, enchanted against the wet, sloshed through puddles he firmly considered to be too deep. Could these heathens not afford level streets? _Fasta vas_.

The long walk back to his room, perhaps unfortunately, allowed him ample time to think. While he could have expected it, it was jarring to see Felix looking so frail. The years were catching up, and the limits of medical ability were approaching. Soon there would be nothing left to do, no prolonging the inevitable. Felix knew this; Dorian struggled to accept it. Certainly the point of his exile was not to avoid thinking about his friend, but it was definitely a side effect. Hard to feel sad when a lithesome young prostitute had his lips wrapped around the base of your cock; hard to feel much at all when you were drunk enough almost to pass out, too drunk to even finish. He wondered, briefly, what his father would think to hear tales of his son’s utter impotence; best, probably, not to go down that avenue. It didn’t matter anyway. At most, his father would catch wind of rumors, whispers about dozens of nights spent in the seediest brothels in Minrathous. For all Dorian cared, his father could believe he’d fucked every willing man in the city.

The dim light below the front door of the hut snuck up on him, jarring him from his thoughts. His knock was barely audible above the pounding rain, but after a moment the door swung open and an old elven woman stepped aside to let him through.

“Thank you,” he murmured. Taking care to bolt the door behind himself, he hung his cloak and waved a hand down its length, warming it until it was nearly dry. He wouldn’t be a rude house guest, leaving puddles all around. When he turned, the woman was staring at him with narrowed eyes. Dorian shifted his weight uncomfortably. “It won’t drip,” he said. She shook her head.

“No, I’m sure it won’t. I don’t care. Why do you look like shit?” Her gravelly voice made the words sound accusatory, but he knew her well enough after these several weeks to sense she was concerned.

He smiled, only a bit, one corner of his mouth lifting almost against his will. “I think things are about to change,” he told her. “My friend, the one I told you about? He doesn’t look well. I worry.” He crossed to the ladder and ascended to the loft, where he stripped and fell heavily on the bare mattress. Her eyes were still on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and hoped to regain some warmth. What he wouldn’t give for a steam room right now. Or a hot bath.

As his eyes dropped shut, she snorted quietly. “Things have already changed, boy. It won’t do you any good to mope about it.” She blew out the lamp and pitch blackness descended on the small cottage. Dorian’s heart gave a lurch. She was right, of course. But he had always been self-indulgent and would not stop now. If they were right - if Felix’s prediction panned out - he wouldn’t have very much longer to indulge, anyway. There would be work to do.

\---

The Herald, it turned out, was a young man of noble birth who barely understood what he was doing or why. Their meeting in the Chantry had not left Dorian overly impressed, although he itched to study the man’s hand up close. Reassuringly, he was at least accompanied by two competent women. The elf girl with the tragic haircut was something… else, but that didn’t bear too much importance at the moment.

Dorian was on his fourth replay of their conversation in his head, and less sure than ever he knew what the Inquisition would do. It was likely Alexius would make the next move, and he grew more desperate by the day. But the Inquisition was seemingly unwilling to pull its breeches up and confront the problem head on. After a graceful and mysterious exit through the back of the Chantry, he'd looped around to follow the Herald and his companions back toward their camp. From a safe distance, he watched them argue well into the night. Even after they retired, lights burned within two tents for another hour at least. Just before he had left to make his way back to the village, Dorian was certain he’d seen two large birds take flight from the camp. Their collective mind was obviously still not made up, and this worried Dorian. How much more sinister than actual _time travel_ did the situation need to be before they would take it seriously?

“Don’t fall in!” Felix’s voice came out of nowhere, startling Dorian into nearly doing just that. He glowered up at his friend as he took a seat next to Dorian on the dock, the smelly brown water of the lake lapping up around the wooden dock supports as if daring Dorian to touch it. He shuddered.

“What are you brooding over now? Did Mulla kick you out for being too sad and pensive all the time?”

“Very funny.” He eyed Felix, whose skin looked waxy and pale. _Not looking too good, my friend._ “How are you?”

Felix leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him so they extended over the edge of the dock. “Don't worry about me, Dorian. I keep telling you.”

“I always worry about you.” Dorian didn't look at Felix, but he could feel the frown that was shot his way.

“There are more important things. They'll come back. How could they not?”

“I never know about these Southerners. Did you know see what they wore? Not a bit of common sense among them.” Felix chuckled, but Dorian couldn't truly find the humor in it. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing out over the water, and they settled into a companionable silence. Dorian’s thoughts wandered back to the meeting in the Chantry. Perhaps more problematic than his uncertainty about the Inquisition was that they didn't seem to trust him, either. He grudgingly understood why. It wasn't as if all their stereotypes and ideas about his country weren't basically true. But the Herald, at least, seemed like a reasonable sort. Maybe he’d convince them of what needed to be done.

Dorian had expected him to be a mage, but he wasn't, which made the way he closed the rifts quite perplexing indeed. He didn't seem to know what he was doing with the mark on his hand, but at least he was moderately proficient with a dagger. Dorian was, however, pretty sure he hadn't noticed that a well-timed arc of lightning had coincided with his little knife jabs on two separate occasions. He might have earned a reputation as a particularly flashy enchanter while in the Circle, but two years living on the run had taught him subtlety. And once the breach had come, when he'd crossed the sea into Ferelden to see for himself this fabled Herald; when he'd fled from his former mentor’s notice, subtlety had saved his life more than once.

He shook his head. Getting off track again.

If the Herald wasn’t a mage, how did he get the mark; and how had he learned what to do with it? Dorian supposed that might have accounted for the appearance of ineptitude when he’d flung his hand at the rift in the Chantry. At least he’d managed to close it. None of the mages Dorian had encountered so far knew what to do with them, except one eleven man he’d seen seal one from afar. By the time he had gotten to the rift, he was gone, and the thing still hung in midair, although at least not spurting demons anymore.

God, the demons. Dorian was so sick of demons he could vomit at the thought alone. The despair ones were drawn to him, he thought. Recently he’d taken to trapping them in static cages and stabbing the blade end of his staff into their heads; it was highly effective and remarkably cathartic. Having to sharpen his blade more often was a small price to pay for satisfaction and less frostbite.

“So what’s the plan?” Felix asked. He was looking at Dorian with that same easy smile he always had, like he knew something Dorian didn’t. _I’m going to miss that smile_ , Dorian thought. He leaned back to mirror Felix’s pose, palms flat against the ground and his feet swinging over the water.

“I think I have to go to Haven. I have to convince them to meet with your father again and stop whatever he’s planning.” Dorian chanced a look to his friend’s face, but there was no overt indication Felix was bothered by the idea of Dorian bringing forces to capture his father - if, in fact, capture was an option. In Dorian’s experience, there was no limit to what a desperate man would do to reach his end. He fervently hoped Alexius wouldn’t make this more difficult than it needed to be. Perhaps he could still be persuaded to see reason.

“You’re probably right,” Felix agreed. “When will you go?”

“In the morning, I expect. It’s only a day’s ride, but I can’t leave them time to talk themselves into some other foolish plan. Maker only knows what they’d come up with.”

“Hmm. Shame. I suppose that means you'll be too busy preparing to share with me this bottle I snuck out from father’s stores.” From within his robes he pulled a bottle of wine, and Dorian couldn't help but grin.

“You know I'm never too busy for a drink or two. Hand it here.”

Come morning, he had no idea what would happen. The future was dark and cloudy, his path obscured by innumerable decisions out of his control. One thing, at least, he knew for certain. The bright spot on the horizon was the Inquisition, and if there was any chance to be a part of helping it achieve peace, he would seize it with both hands.


End file.
